Mastering the toaster

THERE is only one thing worse than the embarrassment of wet behind the ears adolescents sorting out problems with my computer. It’s when blokes my own age are able to sort out problems with my computer.

The generation gap was always a reliable excuse for not being au fait with the latest technology, but the fact of the matter is, I have always been sadly deficient in the understanding of anything remotely mechanical or electrical.

My mind is as blank as a nun’s diary when it comes to such things and I am not only a fish out of water, but one that is already gutted and fried.

I have only just got to grips with the toaster.

Talking to an acquaintance recently about ‘the good old days’, it became apparent that whilst I was a Mod -they of the Beatles haircuts and Carnaby Street persuasion – he had been a Rocker and a member of the Brylcreem and leather brigade.

One of the younger ladies present asked what the difference was between the two. My friend offered the view that all Mods were big girls blouses (appropriate laughter) whilst I informed her that unlike Rockers, the Mods did wash (more tittering).

The other major difference we pointed out, was the mode of transport.

Whilst Mods were buzzing about on their Lambretta and Vespa hairdryers, the Rockers thundered around on their prized Norton and Triumph death machines.

Apart from the attraction of funky clothes and haircuts, there was of course the music but I have to confess that secretly, I used to drool over the shiny super bikes in the motor cycle showrooms.

My brother-in-law owned a BSA Rocket Gold Star, truly a thing of beauty, and I longed to be able to do my Easy Rider thing and roar off with a raven haired woman on the pillion seat, moulding her luscious body into mine as we left lesser machines in our wake.

So what was the problem?

Well firstly there was no way I could afford such a machine. Secondly I didn’t know any raven haired women with luscious bodies, and thirdly, whilst we Mods would simply lock up our scooters for the night after a day’s posing, Rockers would be up to their elbows in oil and mysterious metal bits; stripping down and rebuilding the damn things on an on-going basis.

And that, as I have already explained, was completely beyond my understanding.